Page 22 of Daring the Bad Boy

Eight o’clock on the dot.

Rosie checked her phone for the twentieth time in the last hour and stared at the buzzers of the apartment building in Clerkenwell she’d run out of that morning.

Had it only been nine hours ago? Because she felt as if she’d sweated off about ten pounds since then.

She’d left Tash and Imo at Costa’s in St. Pancras what felt like a lifetime ago.

After Tash had assured her there was no rule which said casual hook-ups had to be only the once. And that surely she owed a repeat performance to her lady bits considering how long they’d been in hibernation. While Imo had ruminated at length on what Mr. Abso-Fricking-Luscious might be able to achieve in a bed.

In short, their pep talk had consisted of one main message. “Stop overthinking and JUMP HIM.”

So she’d spent the three hours since preparing herself. A long hot bath, a pomegranate facemask, a home waxing kit, perfume liberally applied to all her pulse-points, a dash of lipgloss and the smudge of eyeliner, her favorite killer red dress, and four-inch ice pick heels – picked out after she’d tried on six different pairs until she got just the right strut effect – ought to cover just about all the bases.

There was only one slight problem she hadn’t factored into her date night.

She still didn’t know Cal’s surname. So she had no clue which one of the buzzers to press.

Strutting back a step on her too-high heels, she glanced up at the windows on the second floor, and began chewing off the lipstick she’d spent ten minutes re-applying in the cab.

Was his space flat one, two, three or four?

She squinted again at the buzzers.

The options were: Flat 4: Khan. Flat 3: Peroni. Flat 2: Jackson and Flat 1: a blank space where the name was supposed to be.

She thought of the cardboard boxes stacked against the walls of his bedroom and living area. And stabbed her finger into the buzzer with no name. Her heartbeat kicked up a notch when the crackle of the intercom was followed by a gruff voice she recognized.

“Hey, Rosie, come on up.”

She shoved the door at the buzz that followed. Her heels clicked on the bare concrete flooring and a light appeared in the hallway above the metal stairs she remembered hightailing it down that morning.

“You made it,” he called down.

Had he expected her not to? Her stomach did a backflip. Of course not, it was just a turn of phrase. Surely no woman ever said no to him?

Of which there were no doubt legions. No man who looked like he did, and had such impressive clit skills wouldn’t be alone for long.

Stop thinking about other women. You’re the only woman with him tonight.

“Um, yes.” She climbed the stairs, her gaze fixed on his silhouette in the doorway. The worn jeans and cotton T he’d been wearing earlier accentuated the muscular build and she noticed that homemade tat on his wrist again as she approached, his forearm stretching to hold the heavy metal door open for her.

She brushed past him, getting a lungful of clean male scent spiced with cedarwood cologne.

The aroma of something delicious filled the apartment as she stepped into the clean, minimalist space. She noticed the table set for two by the window, a bottle of wine open on the countertop and something cooking in a big blue Le Creuset casserole pot on the gleaming stainless steel stove.

He couldn’t have set the scene for seduction more perfectly. Her stomach did a full somersault this time. The slow roll peaking when his hands covered her shoulders to take off her coat. The heavy wool slid off, arousal sizzling across her collarbone as cool fingertips skimmed over her nape. The sizzles settled in her abdomen at the low appreciative wolf whistle.

“Damn, is that a dress or a placemat?”

She coughed out a laugh. “A bit of both.” She rubbed the goose bumps on her arms, suddenly feeling over-dressed – and under-dressed at the same time. Why had she assumed they’d just jump each other? And why did that thought feel less intimate than sharing a meal together?

“Either way, it works,” he said, folding her coat and dumping it on the couch that faced the plasma TV.

“You cooked?” she said, trying not to be touched. When was the last time a guy had cooked for her? Any guy?

“Have you eaten already?”

“No, it’s not that, it’s…” What could she say without sounding like a romantic airhead? “I suppose I had you figured as more of a take-away pizza kind of guy.”

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